This is my second foray into PROMPTuesdays, a creative writing venture hosted by San Diego Momma that offers exercises to be written in ten minutes in less than 150 words. I was reminded of its existence by Slouching Mom.
***
A DIVERSION
I thrust my fingers--shriveled from cold--into his elegant grip as we followed the hill away from church. He wore a wool jacket that hung straight until it belled out slightly at his knees. There were no wrinkles. There were no misplaced creases. There was no cat fur, either, or stray strands of yarn or lint or my blond hair or any of the things that attach to wool coats whenever I wear them. He was refined in presentation but obviously not at heart.
I traced a fat vein that traversed his wrist like an ink spill. It was as if his blood pumped harder to fight the chill. I pushed up against him while we walked, my hip against wool and thigh. His stride matched the blue-black beat in his veins. That darkness was everywhere. The rolls of land had been green, yellow, red, and earthy brown only a month before. Now there was the blue sheen of a dry mist, like weather on an unprotected painting.
Showing posts with label PROMPTuesdays. Show all posts
Showing posts with label PROMPTuesdays. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Blue
I found out about San Diego Momma's PROMPTuesday via Slouching Mom. I've enjoyed reading SM's responses to the creative writing exercises and, this week, I'm jumping on the bandwagon. Go to SDM's site to read the prompt, and keep reading here to find my response. It's fiction.
***
The sky is midnight blue. Light leaks through the house’s picture window and it is blue, too, but more frenetic and kind of dazzling. I stand on the sidewalk, directly opposite the curtained panes. Azure shadows flicker on the colorless palette of grass. I wonder what she is watching on TV.
The trees have skeletal hands that bleed leaves. They are caught by the wind in cold eddies around my feet. The temperature doesn’t touch me as I imagine so much broken glass and its affect on the eerie color scheme pervading this late hour. Opening curtains, white light bathing pale skin, blue turning to black as Letterman deadpans onscreen.
No, not tonight.
It’s not real, me standing here now. Behind the curtains she is reclining on her faux suede sofa, underneath a down throw because she’s always cold, as she watches the flat screen with indifferent lethargy. Maybe a clock ticks, so ubiquitous that she no longer hears it. Maybe the heat kicks on, pumping hard to warm her cold blood. Maybe her phone rings.
Finally I feel it, the chill against my ear as I wait.
***
The sky is midnight blue. Light leaks through the house’s picture window and it is blue, too, but more frenetic and kind of dazzling. I stand on the sidewalk, directly opposite the curtained panes. Azure shadows flicker on the colorless palette of grass. I wonder what she is watching on TV.
The trees have skeletal hands that bleed leaves. They are caught by the wind in cold eddies around my feet. The temperature doesn’t touch me as I imagine so much broken glass and its affect on the eerie color scheme pervading this late hour. Opening curtains, white light bathing pale skin, blue turning to black as Letterman deadpans onscreen.
No, not tonight.
It’s not real, me standing here now. Behind the curtains she is reclining on her faux suede sofa, underneath a down throw because she’s always cold, as she watches the flat screen with indifferent lethargy. Maybe a clock ticks, so ubiquitous that she no longer hears it. Maybe the heat kicks on, pumping hard to warm her cold blood. Maybe her phone rings.
Finally I feel it, the chill against my ear as I wait.
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